


it takes a lot to know

by manykinsmen



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Belts, Body Dysphoria, Boys in Skirts, Crossdressing, Daddy Kink, Divorce, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Femdom, Feminization, Gender Issues, Light Bondage, Multi, Nude Photos, Polyamory, Sexuality Crisis, Shaving, Spanking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29157033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manykinsmen/pseuds/manykinsmen
Summary: The first time, it’s an accident, really. (Valtteri loses a wife and gains a skirt).
Relationships: Nico Rosberg/Vivian Sibold, Past Lewis Hamilton/Nico Rosberg - Relationship, Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc, Valtteri Bottas/Nico Rosberg, Valtteri Bottas/Tiffany Cromwell, Valtteri Bottas/Tiffany Cromwell/Nico Rosberg/Vivian Sibold, past Valtteri Bottas/Emilia Pikkarainen
Comments: 53
Kudos: 51





	1. what are you so afraid to lose

It happens months before anyone notices but then everyone is too busy watching Dani and Kelly come off the rails, spectacularly, with a baby and Max Verstappen in the middle. There are explosive arguments and hotel room damages and when it finally comes screeching to a halt, Valtteri finds himself in a bar, consoling Dani and saying nothing of his own impending divorce papers, fiddling with his wedding ring idly as Dani rants. “He’s a child. She’s left me for a fucking child.”

_You’re both children compared to her._ Valtteri doesn’t say, tipping the beer bottle to meet his lips. He grunts an affirmative and pushes Dani’s bottle back into his hands, eyes glued to the football match on the television. His gaze flicks back to Dani momentarily. Oh, he’s crying. Valtteri politely ignores it. He hasn’t cried over Emilia yet, though he feels somewhat like he should. That’s what people do, isn’t it?

But what is there to cry about? It had caught him a little by surprise but there was no argument, no attempts to save it, only her tightly packed suitcase in one hand and the dog’s lead in the other. _I wish you’d cheated. Then at least I could be angry._ Valtteri isn’t sure what she had meant by that. He squeezes Dani’s shoulder to let him know his team has scored, though Dani doesn’t look up from his folded arms, his face pressed into the table. Valtteri’s not good at this, but the world will find out eventually. He drafts the post and schedules it while he watches Dani weep through half-time, his undrunk beer getting warm beside his elbow.

\--

He wants nothing more than to go back to Finland, than splendid isolation, but that’s where Emilia has gone and he ought to give her space. The off-season is getting to him. He’s barely left his flat in Monte Carlo in weeks and his stubble seems to have turned into a beard and everywhere is a mess. He’d fired the cleaner, impulsively – not to her face, of course, he’d just e-mailed the agency to let them know he wouldn’t need them for a while. He gets up, he works out, he eats something bland and simple, he watches movies on Netflix, he barely thinks. Anyone else would drink, probably, but Valtteri does stomach crunches.

The first time, it’s an accident, really. It has been a long time since he’s last done laundry and honestly, it only even occurs to him that laundry was something he ought to have been doing when he reaches for clean trousers after his post-gym shower only to find the drawer empty. He wanders around the apartment in his underwear in search of anything remotely clean and comes up with nothing. The machine is easy enough to figure out – he just dumps it all in there together with the detergent, refusing to give a shit if he ruins anything. He has money, he can buy another.

It’s just… Valtteri’s not exactly comfortable like this, even just watching Kill Bill for the eight-hundredth time. He looks down at his own legs and frowns at the blonde hairs pointing skywards as his flesh goosepimples, the thick, bulging calves in proportion with the rest of him. He turns, examining himself in the wardrobe mirror. He looks blocky. He’s always been like this, but it’s worse, somehow, in this moment. The sight of himself displeases him.

He sees it in the gap where the wardrobe hasn’t quite slid shut and he doesn’t know what possess him but suddenly he’s holding one of Emilia’s skirts. It’s long and black, the faintest hint of embroidered butterflies at the bottom and between his fingers the fabric feels something like linen. It slides on easy with its elasticated waist and brushes his bare toes as he stands, satisfied with not having to look at his stupid legs anymore.

Valtteri returns to the sofa and Quentin Tarantino. He tries not to think as he types his text to Emilia. _You left some things here. What shall I do with them?_ It’s functional. It doesn’t need to do any more than that. Still, he’s hardly focusing on the film, chewing his thumbnail and gazing out of the window. No one can see, he’s certain. They’ve – He and Emilia have fucked in here before with the curtains wide open.

Lucy Liu’s scalp is sliding off her head when his phone pings with a response. _Throw them away._

\--

They’re nice, the skirts. They’re not as cumbersome as jeans and they offer more coverage than shorts and they get better airflow than sweatpants. He cycles through a couple of different ones, all the same long shape: an emerald green one, one tie-dyed shades of red and a navy one with white polka dots. The black is his favourite though. There’s something about the crinkle of the fabric that he can’t help but want to touch. He can’t recall Emilia wearing any of these – if she did at one time or another then he must not remember. Valtteri’s still not really going out, maybe to cycle or run or to pick up some groceries, and he certainly doesn’t wear the skirts past the threshold. When he pulls his jeans back over his legs they feel stiff, unwieldy and scratching. He sighs, he’ll have to deal with it – he needs milk.

In the supermarket, he bumps into Nico. Monaco’s a small place, everyone knows everyone, almost, and is more interested in fresh baguettes than in taking photographs of him when they think Valtteri isn’t looking. Nico touches Valtteri’s arm before he realises he’s there, too absorbed in trying to remember which brand he likes. “Hey. How’re you doing?”

Valtteri turns and blinks at him, his brow furrowed. There’s something about Rosberg that he’s never quite been able to put his finger on and it’s present even now with a wire basket clasped in both his hands, smiling back at Valtteri like he’s seen an old school friend. They’re not friends, not really. They just know each other.

Nico waits a polite amount of time for a response but concedes to talking when one isn’t forthcoming. “How’s it going? You know, with the divorce?”

Ah, the D word. Somehow it spooks people worse than talking about the dead. Valtteri can’t understand why, it’s just something that is happening. He shrugs his shoulders, deciding on the one in the green carton and pulling it from the shelf. He misses his friends back in Finland, he does not miss awkward small talk with former colleagues, however perfect their hair is.

“You look tired. Are you sleeping?” Nico talks to fill the silence as Valtteri scans his milk at the self-service. It doesn’t feel like an insult and Valtteri knows if Nico wanted it to it would. He’s good with words in a way that far surpasses the notion of envy. He briefly catches sight of what Nico is purchasing. Wine, and condoms. He snorts. Seems like his marriage is going plenty well.

“Date night?” Valtteri asks, surprised at his own voice. It’s hoarse. He hasn’t used it in a while and he finds himself frowning, embarrassed for some unfathomable reason.

“No. Just stocking up.” Nico’s eyes dazzle, the supermarket light hitting them just so and Valtteri can see a Finnish lake in winter in them. He pauses a moment too long and Nico is looking at him oddly. “You know what, why don’t we hang out, have a boy’s night tonight? You look like you could use the company. Vivian won’t mind.”

“I-” Valtteri swallows and he can feel Nico analysing him like a specimen slide. He urges himself to say something, anything. “O-okay.”

Then Nico’s on the phone and he can hear him chuckling through his German, the odd English word slipped in between. It doesn’t help Valtteri understand. “Baby,” Nico says sickly sweet. Valtteri was never like that with Emilia. Was he supposed to have been? “Ich liebe dich.” He makes a kissing noise into the microphone and hangs up.

\--

Nico whistles as he enters the flat. “A proper bachelor pad, huh?” 

Valtteri’s briefly embarrassed. It’s not _un_ clean exactly, just not that wealthy man spotless you come to expect in Monaco. He winces, rubbing the back of his neck, mumbling an apology. Nico looks out of place here, like the princess living in squalor at the start of the story – he’s too good for this. Valtteri puts the milk away, chewing at the inside of his cheek and longing for gum. He should have bought gum.

“Coffee?” He asks, more for something to say than because he’s actually offering but Nico smiles and accepts, gracious as always. Coffee is familiar and its nice not to have to put the second mug away when he reflexively gets out two. He’s still not out of the habit, just like how there’s still a bowl of stagnant water in the corner for the dog who is just as gone as his wife. He misses Fanni but stay together for the dog just doesn’t have the same weight as stay together for the kid. Maybe they should have had a child.

Nico’s hand is on his arm again, squeezing, grounding. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Valtteri realises he’s been staring at the dog bowl for a long time, the coffee maker ready. He shakes his head and pulls himself out of it, focusing on the mechanics of the task at hand. Tasks are good, keep him busy, he doesn’t have to think, can rely on muscle memory, like being in the car. They sit in silence at the breakfast bar, sipping way too hot coffee, Valtteri staring determinedly at the wall ahead. He has put off thinking about it for so long, why is it such a struggle now?

“Do you… Do you want to talk about it? It’s good to talk, I think.” Nico’s eyes are on Valtteri again, his head tipped slightly, calculating. There’s a crinkle of concern in his brow that Valtteri can’t help but think is purposefully exaggerated. Valtteri shivers involuntarily, a jolt of something up his spine. He sits up straighter, bites the corner of his mouth a little slow to stop a weird sound escaping, something between a sigh and a whine and a groan. Pathetic. “Okay. Fuck coffee. Wine it is.”

Valtteri downs his coffee. It scalds but he doesn’t care. He needs something to centre himself and the sensation that the roof of his mouth is peeling will do. Nico’s rummaging around in his cupboards looking for wine glasses. Valtteri’s leant on his politeness override somehow.

\--

They have similar taste in films – something fun, but still relatively highbrow. That’s how they end up watching The Shape of Water. Nico’s watched it before with his wife but it’s new for Valtteri, who does like Guillermo Del Toro films typically. This one has him squirming though. He’s not sure how he feels about sex scenes – they’re awkward and uncomfortable with the wrong people and he keeps looking at Nico who’s pretty immersed. He can see why Nico likes this one, it’s elegant, even when it’s ridiculous.

_Emilia would like this_ , Valtteri thinks, reflexively. His hand smooths over the fabric of the sofa, its crushed velvet texture. Emilia had chosen this too and he can just make out the ever so slightly darker patch where Emilia had spilt her wine as Valtteri had slid tongue between her thighs midway through Y Tu Mamá También, unable to resist the urge anymore. He can still recall her taste, how she’d squealed and the wine had run over the back of his head, her fingers sliding through it in his hair. Valtteri shifts his hips a little, aware once again of just how uncomfortable jeans can be. Nico excuses himself to the bathroom.

Valtteri tries to focus on the film. If he were alone, he would probably jerk off to this. He’s always preferred actual cinema to pornography for that. Sex should be beautiful. He wonders when it stopped being beautiful between him and Emilia. He braces his forearms on his thighs and looks closes his eyes, his head angled down at the floor as he suppresses the urge to cry. _It’s the drink. It’s only the drink._

There’s laughter from the bathroom. Nico’s a little drunk too and it’s louder, less refined, than Nico normally allows himself. Valtteri takes a moment to collect himself and by the time he turns to look over his shoulder, Nico is standing in the doorway, the butterfly skirt clutched in his hands. Valtteri’s eyes widen. He must have left it on the floor in there when he changed to go out and-

“You have a lady friend? Already? Kept that quiet, didn’t you.” Nico’s got the fabric pressed up against him, smoothing his hand over it likes he enjoys the feel of it just as much as Valtteri. He’s looking down, admiring it, fingers mapping out the embroidery around the edge. “So go on. What’s her name?”

Valtteri’s tongue is thick and stupid. He’s staring and then his eyes are starting to water and he turns away, blinking desperately. He wants to lie, even if it’s obvious, say her name is Mimi or something just as ridiculous, but he’s never been a good liar. It feels like he’s trying to reinflate his lungs and Nico drops the skirt on the floor and rushes over and the film is still playing and Valtteri’s finally crying and he can’t stop it. It’s just coming and coming and coming. He shouldn’t have drunk anything and this is all the more humiliating because it’s Nico and Nico’s cradling him like he’s someone he actually cares about and not just… Not just Valtteri.

“It’s hers,” he chokes out but even that half-truth is like swallowing lead and Nico’s just looking at him. He wants to vomit. “I… It’s mine.”

“Hey. It’s okay. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Nico’s kissing Valtteri’s temple and it scorches like a brand against his skin and Nico’s so soft, even with a couple of days of stubble that Valtteri can’t help but cling to him, Nico’s shirt bunching under his fingers and Sally Hawkins is fucking a fishman in the corner of his vision and he’s too drunk for this and Nico’s too drunk for this and then suddenly their mouths connect.

He doesn’t know who’s to blame for it, or even if they just both turned their heads at the wrong moment, but it’s Nico that opens his mouth, slides his tongue between Valtteri’s startled lips and pushes him down into the sofa. Valtteri’s making a confused, keening sound and Nico’s shushing him, says its okay, says to just let him do this, let him help. The heel of his hand presses against Valtteri’s crotch and it feels like that’s enough to burst something inside him because Valtteri stills and just… Just lets it happen.

Valtteri tips his head back over the arm of the sofa and Nico drags down his jeans, squeezing Valtteri’s tense calves. He can’t bring himself to look at Nico, it feels like sullying him, even as Nico’s stroking up his trembling thighs and palming him through the fabric of his underwear. He wants to pretend it’s a woman doing this, but there’s something unmistakably masculine in Nico’s grip tightening on his hip. Nico’s hand moves in practiced strokes. _Who else has he done this for?_ Ashamed as he is, Valtteri can’t find his voice to stop Nico.

“Been a while, hmm?” Valtteri’s cock is fattening up in Nico’s palm as he feels him pull away his briefs. Valtteri hasn’t even thought about – _Almost a year._ He winces, biting down on the knuckle of his thumb, cheeks flushed and red, as Nico kisses softly at the head. Sure, he’s heard rumours about Nico but then it’s none of his business. He opens his mouth and takes Valtteri inside and Valtteri is trying desperately to let go, to disengage higher processes and think only with his animal brain.

“Emilia,” he whines, his mouth moving in muscle memory, his hips pushing up as his back arches off the sofa beneath him. Nico places a steadying hand on his stomach, doesn’t correct him. It’s over as quickly as it begins, Valtteri’s humiliation written across his face in a warm flush and his thighs in purple blotches where Nico has gripped him tight enough to bruise. Nico swallows without complaint, licks his mouth like a hungry cat when Valtteri finally raises his head to meet Nico’s gaze.

Then his teeth are on Valtteri’s neck and he’s fumbling out of his own trousers, pushing his cock into Valtteri’s pliant hand. Valtteri doesn’t jerk him off so much as allow Nico to thrust into his loose fist. The film is still playing in the background and Nico is growling in his ear. “I want to see you in that skirt, Baby,” he sucks a mark on Valtteri’s neck and cums all over his hipbone.

\--

Nico stays in his bed. He’s been plying Valtteri with even more wine and is drunk as a skunk himself. He insists it helps, better out than in and all that old nonsense, stroking Valtteri’s back whenever another fit of sobbing takes him. Maybe Nico’s right, but Valtteri’s too inebriated too appreciate it so Nico bundles him up in the blankets and squeezes him tight to his chest, kissing behind his ear, whispers sweetly for him to let her go but he can’t, oh God he can’t, she’s his… She’s his wife.

He wakes up before he’s aware he’s slept. Nico’s arm is thrown haphazardly over Valtteri’s waist and Valtteri can see his naked back as he lies face down in the pillow, perfect hair tumbling free from its style. Nico has a perfect body, like Michelangelo carved him out of marble and Valtteri’s hand is skimming over the path of Nico’s spine before Valtteri can stop it.

“Mhmm… Good morning,” Nico says, lazily. His toes flex where they poke out of the other end of the duvet. Valtteri’s head hurts and the disjointed memories of the previous evening come at him in spurts. He shuffles away from Nico, horrified. What has he done? What the fuck has he done? “Something wrong?”

There’s that wrinkle between Nico’s brows again and Valtteri’s mouth is dry, repulsion at himself coiling in and uncoiling in his gut. It feels like he’s spluttering dust before he finally gets something comprehensible out. “You’re married.” He catches sight of himself in the mirror and he looks disgusting, dark circles under his eyes, dry, peeling lips with purple wine stains in the cracks. _I have to call Emilia­-_ He catches himself. Nico might be married but he’s not. There’s no one to call, no one to confess to, no one to beg forgiveness from.

Nico sighs and rolls onto his back, his hair a cracked halo about his head. “I knew I forgot something last night. I’m sorry, I should have said.”

“I already knew you were married…?” Valtteri raises a confused eyebrow. He’s clutching the sheets over himself like he’s been caught masturbating. Nico stares back, his gaze certain where Valtteri’s wavers.

He purses his lips, a fondness curling at their corners. “That we have an arrangement, Valtteri.” He’s chuckling as he takes hold of Valtteri’s wrists and pulls him down into his chest, his left leg between Valtteri’s who lets out a startled yelp. They both turn as Nico’s phone buzzes, lighting up with a message.

**Mrs. Rosberg <3**

Das Abendessen ist um 7 Uhr. ;P


	2. the slow reveal of what another body needs

The laundry betrays him again. It’s been a week since… Since the incident. That’s as much detail as Valtteri cares to remember it in, something coiling in the pit of his belly every time his mind wanders back towards the image of Nico sprawled out in his bed languidly, almost posed. Nico knows he is beautiful and revels in it and Valtteri can hear Nico’s laughter in the back of his head when he finds himself daydreaming about the hollow of Nico’s throat, the incredible arch of his shoulder blades, rippling under the skin.

Valtteri studies himself in the mirror, naked, pinching and prodding at himself. When he’s focused on racing, it’s easier to maintain a staunch indifference to his body. It is a tool; _he_ is a tool. You can appreciate a hammer in the hands of a workman. It’s not art, though. The other drivers on the grid have different aesthetics, Nico is a Renaissance painting, Dan is closer to Pop Art, but their bodies are all beautiful, the symmetry and flow of them. Valtteri looks at himself and sees concrete blocks, iron girders and harsh lines. If he can truly think of there being a style to his physique, it’s Brutalism.

Should he lean into it, or fight it? What does it matter? He’s not getting any more attractive. The machine is entering spin and it is loud, the vibration of it rumbling through the bathroom tiles beneath his feet. He slides the skirt over his hips. This helps, it creates shape, flow, motion. Women are onto something, he thinks, lathering up his chin and lifting the razor. The beard has to go, it’s irritating him how it looks like his jaw is rusting. He might not be beautiful, but there’s no excuse for him to look this haggard. Tools should be kept clean and ready.

He’s half-way across his face when he catches sight of Nico in the mirror behind him. Startled, he drops the razor into the sink with a clatter. Nico has his coat folded over his arm and sits himself down on the edge of the bath, studying Valtteri intently, a devious glint in his eye. “You didn’t hear me knock, but the door was open, so I let myself in. Don’t mind me.”

Valtteri nods back at Nico in the mirror and picks up the razor again, pressing it back against his throat. He swallows and his Adam’s apple scrapes painfully against the blade. His hands are trembling. Nico reaches for the edge of the skirt, examining it, his head tipped slightly to the side. He strokes the fabric between his finger and thumb and Valtteri nicks himself, a trickle of blood dripping down into the hollow of his throat. He gasps and drops the razor a second time.

Nico’s on his feet, his coat abandoned on the floor, and his thumb is pressing over the cut. It’s a small thing, just a scratch, but there’s soap in it and it stings. The pressure on his throat is to stem the blood flow, but it has a shiver running up Valtteri’s spine and Nico’s fingers trail after it along Valtteri’s naked back.

“Let me.” His breath is close to Valtteri’s ear and he releases Valtteri’s throat to pick up the razor. His other hand tips Valtteri’s head this way and that to get the angle he wants as he works slow and methodical. He begins with the area Valtteri’s already shaved and Valtteri has to bite his own lip. _What? Did I do it wrong?_ Nico’s thumb rests above the cut, pressing just a little. His gaze meets Valtteri’s in the mirror, sharp and unblinking. “Don’t do that.”

Something happens and Valtteri’s not sure what it is but it feels like he is standing outside of himself, watching this happen like a film. He can feel the scrape of the razor, Nico’s thumb stroking behind his ear, his breath warm against his neck, and its real and there and touchable, but it feels like he is floating above it all somehow. Then Nico is wiping Valtteri’s face with a damp cloth, pressing a kiss against his smooth, clean cheek.

Valtteri can feel the fabric moving against his legs, the pull of it upwards as Nico slips a hand beneath. He jumps as Nico’s hand connects with his arse – the smack isn’t hard but it surprises him. Nico’s hand feels bigger than it looks, squeezing and kneading at Valtteri’s flesh while he mouths against Valtteri’s ear. “No panties? Dirty girl.”

Nico’s hand is exploratory, mapping out the contours of Valtteri’s pelvis, stroking over the small of his back, the very edge of Valtteri’s abs that falls under the elastic waistline. He grasps at the meat of Valtteri’s thigh, sucking over the mark he made last week, gaze still fixed on Valtteri in the mirror. He wraps a hand around Valtteri’s cock, just as slow, like he hasn’t touched it before and Valtteri is dragged back into his body, shocked at the sudden realization of just how painfully hard he is and then Nico’s hand is gone again and Valtteri lets out a disgusting little whine that has Nico laughing as he crouches to slip his arm beneath Valtteri’s knees and hoists him up into his arms.

“So good for me.” Valtteri clings to him as he is carried into the bedroom, placed on the bed as if he’s a fragile, precious thing. Nico’s fingernails scrape over his chest, straight across his nipples, in a way that makes Valtteri gasp and throw his head back into the pillows, his stomach tightening. “I’m going to ruin you, Baby. Do you like that?” Valtteri keens. There’s a wet patch forming on the front of the skirt- His skirt. It’s getting dirty. “Use your words Darling.”

He swallows again, his mouth dry and his throat hissing as he tries to form something comprehensible. “Haluaisitko?” Nico might not speak much Finnish, but he understands this and lets it slide, a coy expression on his face as he flips Valtteri’s skirt up onto his stomach.

“Hmmm…” He strokes his hands through the soft down of hair on Valtteri’s legs, then kneels so he can follow with his mouth, licking up where the inseam would be on a pair of trousers, or perhaps a pair of stockings. “You know, I think we should do your legs as well. Better for cycling. And I’ll get to see all that pretty skin. Stay there.”

Nico presses a firm hand against Valtteri’s stomach and Valtteri can’t so much as entertain the notion of disobeying. He feels chained to the spot, unable to do more than lie there and breathe, staring at the ceiling, exposed and hard and flushed from head to toe. His entire body tingles, he can feel the map of his nerves and there’s this curious sensation that he’s just an inch or two out of alignment with himself. He hears Nico return. There’s the sound of water and Nico is sliding his skirt down. Valtteri whimpers.

“It’s okay. I just don’t want to get it wet.” He kisses Valtteri’s stomach and Valtteri acquiesces, lifts his hips just enough for the fabric to slide out beneath him. Then Nico is pushing Valtteri’s legs apart the scrape of the razor returns against Valtteri’s inner thigh. Nico works in small, precise strokes, as if he’s using a straight razor and not some plastic thing. He takes his time, smoothing over his work with his fingers to check he is happy before he moves on to the next area. By the time Nico swaps legs, Valtteri’s cock is dribbling like a faucet against his stomach and he’s shaking from the effort of staying still. Nico kisses the arc of his foot. “That’s it. You’re doing so well. Almost there, just hold on a little longer.”

Valtteri knows it’s a white lie. It takes as long again to do his right leg, if not a little longer, Nico drawing it out and tracing circles on Valtteri’s knee as he works his way upwards. He’s at the top of Valtteri’s thigh when Nico’s knuckles just nudge against the base of Valtteri’s cock. It’s hard to tell if it’s purposeful, but the sudden contact has Valtteri tensing up, unable to contain it a moment longer and Nico has to be quick to lift the razor away as Valtteri cums harder than he has done in his entire life across his entire torso, the force of it enough that some splashes against his neck, the only sound squeezed out of him a choked gasp of alarm. There’s a moment of silence as Valtteri breathes heavily, his fists bunches tightly in the sheets.

Nico tuts and Valtteri chokes back a sob, his knees curling upwards toward his chest in shame, but Nico pushes them back down to where they were, taking Valtteri’s chin in his hand. “Sshhh. That’s okay. It was a lot.” He presses his lips softly against Valtteri’s and Valtteri moans, opening his mouth just a little, seeking out more. Nico draws his lips away. “I have to finish. You just stay still and be good for me.”

Valtteri nods into the sheets, fixing his gaze back on the ceiling. There’s a warm cloth on his neck, wiping down his chest and stomach and over his sticky, softening cock. Then it’s gone and the familiar scrape of the razor is on his thigh again. It’s not dissimilar to that strange fuzzy place halfway between waking and sleeping and the back of his head tingles oddly. He feels giddy. Nico’s already cleared most of the hair from Valtteri’s groin by the time Valtteri clocks what is happening and then he’s too relaxed and pliant to interfere. His cock is stirring again.

“Good girl,” Nico mumbles as he finishes, nuzzling against Valtteri’s cock for a moment before he stands up and clears away his tools. He admires his handywork, tracing his fingers over Valtteri’s smooth, pink skin. “My baby has the most beautiful legs. Makes me want to eat her all up.” He kneels between Valtteri’s legs, pushing them up towards his chest and Valtteri almost laughs as he suddenly realizes that Nico is still fully dressed, shoes and everything, though he has rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows.

Nico’s thumb strokes over Valtteri’s smooth balls, rolling them expertly, before tracing down his perineum, rubbing small circles. Valtteri’s cock is definitely interested but his eyes go wide as the thumb trails lower and he twitches involuntarily, his hands moving to brace against Nico’s shoulders. He’s never- Emilia had- Once, but he’d stopped it and- Nico looks him over with scientific interest.

“No. That won’t do,” Nico says and stands up again. Valtteri whines, something twisting in him that has his stomach in his throat. Nico can’t leave him. Not now, not like this. He sits up, expecting to see Nico turning out of the door but instead he can see Nico rummaging through his drawers. He lets out a noise of confusion as Nico seems to find what he’s searching for and pushes the drawer closed. When he turns around, he has a tie in his hands, a black one that Valtteri only wears if he has to go to one of those ridiculous dinners. He takes Valtteri’s wrists in his hands and binds them together in a simple knot, lashing them onto one of the bars in the headboard. “You’ve been so good for me, let’s not spoil it, hmm?”

And then they’re back where they were, Nico’s thumb teasing dangerously. Valtteri whines again, a wobble of trepidation in it. Why is this the line he’s scared to cross? His heart is beating so hard it aches in his ribs. He can’t see what Nico’s doing and that terrifies him, but there’s movement and rustling and then Nico licks with the thick, heavy flat of his tongue over Valtteri’s hole and he feels all the air rush out of his lungs. 

It’s slow and insistent. Valtteri’s legs shake and he’s sniffling and crying, though he can’t work out precisely why. Nico’s hand squeezes his thigh, grounding him, while his mouth is lascivious, coaxing him open one stroke at a time, and there’s quiet, desperate little moans escaping Valtteri as his cock takes a renewed interest. Nico wraps a palm around him and doesn’t move it, just hold Valtteri still. He turns to bite at Valtteri’s thighs. “There we are. Good girl. Let Daddy treat you right.”

_Daddy?_ The thought is gone before Valtteri can follow it because Nico is pushing a lubricated finger inside him and it makes Valtteri’s cock twitch to think that Nico had come here with intent. The noise that comes out of his mouth is deep and throaty and there’s a little pain but that only makes the sensation more pleasurably intense. Valtteri hiccoughs, surprised at himself, at how much he wants it and Nico’s tongue is back, helping his finger open Valtteri up.

The stretch is incredible, like nothing Valtteri’s ever felt before, and Nico goes on for what could be hours, taking his time and then some. He keeps his hand on Valtteri’s cock, letting his hips buck up into his fist and squeezing tightly whenever he thinks Valtteri’s getting too close. “Not yet,” he hums, making another bitemark inside Valtteri’s thigh. “I’m not done with you Precious.” He slides in a second finger, easy as anything, Valtteri’s body unresisting and his eyes rolling back in his head.

There’s more urgency to Nico’s movement now, fucking Valtteri with fingers and tongue, his hand still curled possessively around Valtteri’s cock. The third is in shortly after and there’s no room for Nico’s tongue now, but the slide of it is so good, the press of Nico’s fingers as they curl up against something inside Valtteri that has him gasping and Nico has to squeeze again, so tight it hurts, to stop him from cumming everywhere.

Nico steps back, pulls his fingers away and Valtteri makes a wounded noise. Nico is looking down at him, his lips glistening and red but his hair still somehow fucking perfect, the two loose strands at the front only framing his face. His shirt is unbuttoned now, and Valtteri can see the rise and fall of his stomach. Somewhere in the middle of it all he’s managed to slip out of his shoes. He looks like Lucifer himself. “Ask me,” he says, his eyes dark and wide.

Valtteri swallows. “Haluaisitko?” He says a second time, tentative, his voice barely there. He doesn’t have to ask, he could stop this right here if he wanted to, but something compels him to continue. Nico stares back at him unsatisfied. Valtteri licks his lips and tries again. “Please? Daddy?” The word slips out of his mouth before he can stop it and Nico’s lips crash into his, eating it up.

“God, yes. Fuck, yes.” Nico fumbles out of his trousers and into a condom and then he’s sliding into Valtteri with thick, blunt pressure that has him arching off the bed. Nico isn’t gentle anymore, pounding into Valtteri with harsh, heavy thrusts like he wants to break him. The bed rattles uneasily and the pressure is building inside Valtteri. He’s not going to last but Nico seems to enjoy that, grinning like a shark. “Go on Baby, cum on my cock. I know you want to. Be a good girl. Cum for Daddy.”

This time it’s a little more subdued, Valtteri mewling and turning his face into Nico’s shoulder as it happens, his toes curling against Nico’s sides. Nico has no inclination to stop, hoisting Valtteri’s legs up onto his shoulders so he can get a deeper angle. It’s too much but there’s nowhere for Valtteri to go so he just lies there and takes it, an empty vessel for Nico to fill. It doesn’t take long. Nico’s as keyed up as Valtteri is so he pulls out, yanks the condom and slides up to Valtteri’s face.

“Open your mouth,” he commands and Valtteri does, the head of Nico’s cock hitting the back of his throat just in time. Valtteri chokes but Nico holds him there until he’s finished, the bitter taste of it spreading across Valtteri’s tongue. He splutters as Nico lets him free, coughing. Nico strokes a palm over his cheek. “I know, I know. Sorry, that wasn’t nice.” He pulls Valtteri’s hands free and collapses beside him on the bed finally looking a little less perfect, his shirt clinging to him with sweat and Valtteri laughs seeing Nico’s still wearing a pair of light grey socks.

Nico smiles and kisses him, softer now, his hands stroking over Valtteri’s arms as he pulls him in for a cuddle. Valtteri has that odd sensation again, that he’s floating, that he’s partially here and partially elsewhere. He closes his eyes and lets Nico wipe him down, then knead at his body with his hands, soothing and peppering him with kisses. Valtteri’s half asleep in Nico’s arms, a small, contented smile on his face. This was… This was really fucking weird and Valtteri doesn’t care. He drifts off.

\--

It’s getting dark outside when Valtteri wakes up. He turns in the blankets, a little confused and light-headed. He needs to drink something. His stomach growls. He needs to eat something too. His vision focuses in slowly and he can read the clock beside him saying its 6.10. That makes sense, it is winter after all. Ugh, he was supposed to go to the shop today but he doesn’t have the energy to do so.

Nico puts a hand out to stroke along Valtteri’s back as Valtteri rolls onto his stomach and begins to push himself up. “Welcome back,” he says softly, nuzzling Valtteri’s arm with his nose. It’s funny, but Valtteri hadn’t expected him to be here, though he knows there’s no reason for Nico to leave. Nico hands him a glass of water from the beside table nearest him. “You need to hydrate.”

Valtteri nods, humming in agreement and downs the contents of the glass. God, he stinks. He stumbles upright and into the bathroom while Nico watches, evidently already showered himself. The water on Valtteri’s face feels like it comes straight from Heaven. There are aches in places Valtteri is not used to aching, at least, not anymore, and bruises littering his body, the biggest, a dark purple bloom at the juncture of his neck and collarbone. He’ll have to wear something with a reasonably high collar when he goes out.

He rubs himself down in mint-scented bodywash and then just stands under the spray for a good few minutes, coming back to reality. It feels like a comedown, his head whirling. _What the fuck?_ _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ His smooth legs slide against one another and the sensation is strangely tantalizing and velvety. _I- I like this..?_ Even the voice in his head is confused.

When he finally steps back into the bedroom, towel pulled around his entire body like a cape, Nico has turned the lights on and is waiting with coffee. Nico is studying him again, but softer, slower now, like a visitor in an art gallery. He sips lazily, watching Valtteri dress. Valtteri considers the skirt for a moment but its sticky and a little damp. He reaches for his jeans.

“You know, I only live across the street,” Nico says suddenly, nodding at the window and the building opposite. “All this time and I didn’t know that until last week.”

“Oh.” Valtteri feels momentarily guilty, then discards the feeling. He pulls the wardrobe open, looking for a shirt. He’s kept on top of the washing and there’s plenty to choose from but he doesn’t know where to start.

“Here, let me-” Nico guides Valtteri’s hand across to a white jumper with thin, navy stripes across the middle. Its soft to the touch, cashmere or something. Valtteri slides it from the hanger and over his head while Nico watches him, apparently satisfied with the look. There’s silence for a moment, then he speaks again, suddenly, a nervous tone in his voice. “Vivian wants to know if you want to come to dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realistically, this is gonna be more like five chapters. I have no idea. I just wanna write Valtteri porn.


	3. the honeybee, the sting, the little girl with wings

He goes to dinner, trying to tell himself it’s the easiest way to acquire food. Nico’s apartment isn’t as immaculate as he would have thought, but then a small child rushes past his legs in a Peppa Pig nightie and he understands why. She’s fast enough on her feet that Valtteri’s already somewhat addled mind can’t keep up and she’s talking in some combination of German and English and Valtteri realizes he is staring down at this blonde-haired little girl in a way that’s probably terrifying when you’re not quite three. Valtteri is ten times her age. The maths makes him ache.

“Alright Alaïa, leave Valtteri alone. It’s bedtime for you. Daddy will read you a story, hmm?” Nico lifts the child onto his hip and carries her into the most colourful room while Vivian watches from the end of the corridor, a wooden spoon in her hand. He can hear a pot boiling in the background. It’s insidiously domestic.

Vivian beckons him into the kitchen, a finger pressed to her lips. “I’ve just put Naila down. She’ll been fine in an hour but she’s fussy about going to sleep.” Her voice is at a natural quiet as she watches the pasta. It’s wholegrain, some twisty shape that Valtteri doesn’t know the name for. “I hope this is okay. I’m not sure what kind of diet you’re on.”

It takes a moment for Valtteri to realise she’s expecting a response. He clears his throat and the English feels awkward, disjointed, uncomfortable. “Yes, thank you.” They’ve met before, the conversation was easy enough before – well as easy a time as Valtteri can have with conversation – but Valtteri feels like an alien in this world. He sits down on a bar stool, wincing a little, his body’s memory of Nico punishing him. It makes Vivian chuckle.

She’s a lot like Nico, Valtteri considers. Willowy, blonde, poised and graceful and always, always watching, observant. Some people prefer partners to be their mirror image and Valtteri’s been guilty of it too, he and Emilia like a matching set. He misses that sense of place, of knowing exactly where he fits. He reaches to fiddle with his wedding ring and it’s not there, though there’s a fading tan line where it used to be. He traces his fingers round this temporary scar.

“You two had fun.” Its not a question and Vivian is smiling, perfect teeth, a slight crinkle at her eyes. Valtteri squirms in his seat, leaning into the pain. She reaches into the pocket of her apron and takes out a tube of lipstick, placing it on the counter in front of Valtteri, something in a sleek black case that looks classic and expensive. “Go on. It’s for you. A little gift – someone gave it to me, but it doesn’t suit me.”

Valtteri stares, his hands shaking as he reaches for it. He uncaps it and winds it up, slowly. It’s daring crimson, a cool undertone that matches Valtteri’s icy Finnish look. He looks at Vivian again, considering her honey complexion, that sun-kissed look she carries even in the depths of winter. Now he can see the difference, Nico almost imperceptibly paler, the Finnish bubbling under the German surface. No, Vivian requires something warmer.

“Good choice Baby, that will suit him,” Nico says softly from where he leans on the doorframe, his arms folded. Vivian smiles back and turns to start plating up the food. Nico steers Valtteri towards the table and sits beside him as Vivian slides into the seat opposite. Valtteri stares down at his pasta, shoveling it into his mouth so he doesn’t have to talk. “How were they today?”

“Alaïa is a little terror for me all day and then she’s good as gold as soon as Daddy gets home,” Vivian snorts and rolls her eyes. “But Nalia’s settled down. I think she’s getting over her cold.”

“Nothing wrong with being Daddy’s girl,” Nico says with a shit-eating grin, winking at Valtteri and Valtteri chokes on his food. Nico slaps a hand against his back, laughing and Vivian’s staring curiously, the same way Nico had looked at him earlier. There’s tears forming at the corners of Valtteri’s eyes and he hears the screech of Nico’s chair against the floor as he stands, his arm over Valtteri’s shoulder as Valtteri struggles to find his breath. “Fuck. I’m sorry, I-”

“Nico.” Vivian’s tone is admonishing, and her gaze is on Nico now, her soft mouth drawn into a stern frown and Valtteri hasn’t seen this Nico before, the one caught with his hand in the cookie jar, faltering and apologetic. “I’m sorry about my husband Valtteri. He tries to take these things far too quickly. He has no patience. What am I to do with him?”

\--

There are rules. They only play this game at Valtteri’s apartment. Nico is expected to come home when he’s called. There’s always a condom. These are the rules for Nico, but they are not the only ones at play. There are other, more complex rules for Valtteri. (Like how Nico has to touch first, has to smile first, has to speak first. Nico takes the opening move, always. He has a key to Valtteri’s front door now, can come and go as he pleases).

Right now, Nico has Valtteri’s bare foot in his lap, squeezing it rhythmically while they watch The Handmaiden. Valtteri’s struggling to stay focused on the subtitles, especially when he feels the lick of something wet against his toes. He turns to look and Nico has produced a bottle of nail polish that Valtteri recognises as Emilia’s. It was in the bathroom, in the cupboard under the sink that Valtteri barely uses. It’s a similar shade to the lipstick that Nico swiped over Valtteri’s lips earlier. “Just watch the film,” Nico says softly, a commanding grasp on Valtteri’s toes.

Valtteri nods and turns his attention back to the television, trying not to think about the tickling of the brush as it colours his nails. On the screen, one of the women has her fingers in the other’s mouth, scraping down the sharp point of a tooth until it can’t hurt her. Nico blows air against Valtteri’s toes, encouraging the polish to dry, before lifting Valtteri’s other foot to finish the job. He’s careful, tutting to himself when he overlines and swiping the excess away with his thumb. Valtteri rests his head against the arm of the sofa, flexing his toes when Nico is finished. Nico lifts Valtteri’s foot to kiss the swell of his ankle.

“There. You have such lovely feet, Baby.” Valtteri is never sure how to respond to Nico’s platitudes. He looks up to meet Nico’s gaze for a moment, then back to the film. Nico is more interested in Valtteri’s ankles, rubbing at them, sliding the circles of his hands up Valtteri’s shins. They’re smooth, though this time Valtteri has done the work himself and Nico examines the skin like he’s checking the quality of the job. Valtteri’s skirt, the navy one, bunches at his knees. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

Nico has become increasingly insistent that Valtteri speak and it’s just… Well, Valtteri hates talking. He looks back at Nico again, bites his lip, smudges the colour just a little, while he thinks about what to say. Nico raises an eyebrow. He’s trying to frown, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and Valtteri isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do so he does nothing and then Nico flashes his perfect teeth at Valtteri and grabs hold of his hips, pulling Valtteri into his lap. Valtteri’s eyes go wide.

“Go on then. Tell Daddy thank you,” Nico growls, the skirt pooled over him where Valtteri sits on his thighs. Valtteri opens his mouth but the only thing that comes out is a squeak where his voice is supposed to be. Nico’s eyebrow twitches high on his face. “No? Alright then.” He takes hold of Valtteri’s throat, the pressure just enough to be a little uncomfortable, and bends him over his knee. His skirt is up against his back and Nico slides his briefs down to his thighs and Valtteri feels himself flush as Nico gathers up his wrists in his left hand, a finger pressing against the head of Valtteri’s rapidly hardening cock as repositions it to point towards Valtteri’s painted toes.

Valtteri gasps at the first strike, though it’s not hard, his back arching in surprise. Nico’s hand presses his shoulders down, the white fabric of Valtteri’s t-shirt wrinkling beneath Nico’s delicate fingers. The next comes with much more force, part of a triplet of blows, and Valtteri seethes through his clenched teeth, his cheek pressed into the couch cushions. Nico is relentless, focuses on the same spot, the fold where Valtteri’s left buttock meets his thigh. It has Valtteri hissing and spluttering.

“Come on, let it out,” Nico says, leaning close to Valtteri’s ear. He licks the shell in a way that has Valtteri grinding back against him, struggling just a little in Nico’s grip. Valtteri’s arse is impressively pink already and beginning to bruise. Nico swaps to the other cheek just as Valtteri’s beginning to get lost in the rhythm of it, the pain renewed to a sting from its dull throb. Valtteri shouts, but it’s clearly not what Nico’s after. “Something stronger then. I should have known. My baby’s stubborn.”

Nico picks up Valtteri’s discarded belt from where he’d left it on the living room floor earlier in the day. He grabs the leather close to the buckle, twisting it about his palm twice before he lets the end of it trail over Valtteri’s skin. Valtteri squirms like an animal caught in a trap, panicked. Nico releases his wrists and strokes a soothing palm over the hot, aching skin of Valtteri’s arse.

“Do you trust me?” He asks, suddenly stilling and Valtteri’s shaking over his knee. Valtteri pauses for a long moment before he finally nods, face down, and lifts his hips upwards in invitation. “Good girl.” Nico grasps Valtteri’s wrists again and kisses one of his open palms. Then he brings the belt down and Valtteri starts sobbing, the sofa quickly dampening around his eyes. Nico’s not nearly as forceful as he had been with his hand, but he keeps a steady pace and Valtteri thinks he might never sit again. “Oh, there we go. Beautiful, beautiful. Let me hear you.”

Valtteri loses himself in the pain. His whole body is hot, coursing with adrenaline and his nerves crackle with fire. His cock is soft, but it doesn’t matter because it feels like an orgasm anyway when Nico brings the belt down for the final time and Valtteri fucking howls. Then Nico’s sliding out from under him and Valtteri is boneless and he can feel the pressure of Nico’s fingers against his hole, opening him up. It stings and the lube is cold, but it doesn’t matter. There’s just a moment or two of prep and then Nico is pushing into him and he’s being so incredibly gentle that Valtteri doesn’t know what to do with it. He clenches and unclenches his hands, loose and limp at his sides. Nico pushes Valtteri’s t-shirt up to his armpits so he can stroke over his back, dragging his nails to make more pink marks on Valtteri’s pale skin. It’s hypnotic, the way he fucks Valtteri and his cock is stirring but not fully awake. Valtteri’s not sure how long it goes on but the music from the television changes several times and eventually stops entirely.

“Thank you, Daddy,” Valtteri says quietly, unbidden and surprising himself, and Nico cums, groaning as he falls against Valtteri’s back. When he pulls out, Valtteri’s still crying silently, the cushion sodden with tears and smeared with red lipstick. Nico’s kissing the back of his neck and then Valtteri is alone in the silence until he can hear the sound of footsteps and then he’s pressing something icy cold against Valtteri’s arse. Something from the freezer, wrapped in a towel. He whimpers.

Nico reaches for Valtteri’s flaccid cock and Valtteri flinches, squirming away from the touch, but Nico grips him tight. “Valtteri,” he growls, his voice low and dark. “I thought you were going to be a good girl now.” Then he slips his fingers inside Valtteri and jerks him roughly, pressing down on his prostate and rubbing and rubbing and rubbing until Valtteri is crying again, weak and feeble. He cums pathetically, hiccoughing and twitching, ice melting down the backs of his thighs. His skirt is a mess, his face is a mess, the sofa is a mess and there’s shame spilling over in Valtteri like an unwatched pot on the boil.

\--

There’s a woman he’s seen three times this week, when he’s been cycling. He can’t help but smile when he glides past her at an intersection when she’s coming the other way, or she overtakes him on a steep hill. She’s much better than he is, which is definitely a compliment because Valtteri is by no means bad. He figures she’s a professional of some description, based on the sponsors he reads on the back of her shirt when her dirty blonde plait moves in the wind where it pokes out of her helmet. She has powerful calves that imprint in Valtteri’s mind, the push of them downwards into the pedals. _Fuck_.

The fourth time he sees her, she pokes her tongue out at him. She’s standing at the top of the hill, leaning against a railing and squirting some pink liquid into her mouth when Valtteri stops to dismount. This is where he likes to come on his rides too. It’s a punishing ride, but it’s quiet at the top and you can see the whole of the city from here and the sun is starting to set gloriously over the horizon. Valtteri’s a wilderness boy in his heart. This is the closest he can get in Monaco.

“I’m Tiffany,” she says in a sunshine accent, Australian, he thinks, stretching with a couple of waist rotations. She’s in black and hot pink, feminine and flattering, but there’s strength radiating from every cell in her body and her eyes are fiery and playful. “Not bad.”

Valtteri shrugs his shoulders and can’t help but beam. He doesn’t normally enjoy praise, but something about the way she speaks has his ears flushing pink. “I’m Valtteri,” he ventures, hands gripped tight on the handles of his bike.

“Oh, the F1 driver? Nice.” She puts a hand out to grasp his forearm and it lingers on his sweaty, bare skin, making no secret of feeling his muscles. “Knew you were some kind of athlete.”

“You’re a professional cyclist?” Valtteri ventures, an eyebrow raised. The hair on the back of his neck is standing up and he chews at his lip, trying not to look like he’s checking her out. He definitely does and it’s a little embarrassing, but she seems to revel in it.

“Yeah. Road cyclist – I’m not from round here. I’m up visiting a friend, she’s going through a divorce and needed some company.” Tiffany is quick to volunteer information in a way that Valtteri’s not used to but it makes his heart race and he feels breathless even though he’s absolutely stationary. Tiffany grins. “Race you back down? Loser pays for dinner.”

\--

Tiffany’s friend Clémence lives in the same building as Valtteri, he even recognises her as that auburn haired woman with the obnoxious dachshund that Fanni used to hate. He doesn’t have two thoughts to rub together about her, but Tiffany is constantly on his mind. They message back and forth and go cycling together. Valtteri looks forward to it more than anything.

Nico notices Valtteri’s phone lighting up much more frequently than it used to. “Who’s Tiffany?” He asks, kissing up Valtteri’s back as they sit naked in Valtteri’s bed. Valtteri has lipstick smeared across his face and cum drying on his stomach. Nico is perfect, as ever. “Is she cute?”

“Shut up,” Valtteri growls and Nico reaches a hand around to squeeze at Valtteri’s throat in response.

“Tread carefully Darling. You don’t want to upset Daddy.” Nico licks a wet stripe up Valtteri’s spine and it makes him shudder, embarrassed at how turned on he is. “So go on, tell me about her.”

The words start to tumble from Valtteri’s mouth like they never have done before. She’s a cyclist, he’s saying, and she’s fast and funny and she teases him mercilessly and she has the most warm, lovely voice and he can’t stop thinking about her calves and her messy braid and her big, bright eyes and fuck he wants her to ruin him. He wants to what she tastes like, how she sounds when she climaxes with her thighs around his face, grinding down onto him as she grasps the headboard.

Nico’s stunned into silence. His lips still against Valtteri’s shoulder. “So… So you really like her…?” He ventures after a moment.

“We’ve sort of… Sort of been on a few dates. I’ve told her I have someone I see but that it’s not a serious thing and she said that she’s the same and…” Valtteri trails off, glancing over his shoulder, a concerned wobble in his lip as he looks at Nico. “I don’t know what to do.”

Nico smooths a hand over his hair, then rubs it against the designer stubble on his chin. “I mean… I don’t mind. It would be unfair of me to… You know, I have Viv.” Suddenly he’s the one stumbling over his words and he looks almost disappointed for a second, but then a thought flashes through his eyes and the corner of his mouth is curling deviously. He slides out of the bed and reaches for Valtteri’s phone, holding it as if to take a picture. “Do you trust me?”

Valtteri falters. He averts his eyes. Nico asks again, more urgently. It’s a question and Valtteri knows he’ll put the phone down if Valtteri asks him to. Eventually Valtteri nods. It’s easier like this, not to be the one making decisions. Nico poses him up against the headboard, tells him not to look at the camera, to look out of the window instead.

He sits down beside Valtteri to show him the photograph. Valtteri looks boyish, almost, debauched and far away, colour dragged from his lips all the way up to his cheekbone and the blankets pooled around his hips, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. Nico could be a portrait photographer if he wanted to. Then Nico taps out a message - _Doesn’t he look beautiful? –_ and hits send.

The blinking dots that show Tiffany is typing appear almost immediately and Valtteri wants to throw up. He curls his face into Nico’s armpit and tries just to breathe. Then Nico taps the back of his neck, pushes the phone towards him. _Yes he does. That’s an incredible picture._

Nico takes a selfie, grinning, two fingers raised in the peace sign and Valtteri curled into his side, still not looking at the camera. _Hi! This is Nico!_ The dots are back again and Valtteri has to lean across Nico and take a sip of water to try and settle his stomach.

There’s a photograph of Tiffany on the phone now, her hair loose and fanned out around her head. She’s sprawled out on a yoga mat, corpse pose, post-workout and smiling, her tongue poking out of her mouth again. She’s sparkling with sweat and radiant and Nico is stroking Valtteri’s hair and telling him he thinks she’s beautiful. _Nice to meet you Nico. We should hang out sometime. Send more pictures?_

Nico laughs and slides out of bed again, Valtteri grumbling at the loss of contact. “Well, she’s asking, Baby. Just a couple more and then we can cuddle, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *to the tune of solidarity forever* POOOOOOLYAMORY FOREEEEEVER


	4. the warrior, the sage, the little boy enraged

Valtteri doesn’t have to be nervous around Tiffany, not after the impromptu photoshoot. She doesn’t often wear skirts herself, but she’s keen to add to his collection. He has a ruched white one now, and another in black, this one with pleats that feels so incredibly sophisticated, almost French. They’re still all that gorgeous, long A-line that covers his masculine shape, the bulging muscles fine for in the car but terrible elsewhere. He thinks about something shorter, briefly, and immediately discards the idea. The objective is not to look worse.

He doesn’t _have_ to be nervous, but he is nonetheless. He’s avoiding being naked around her, avoiding going further than tender, sweaty post-workout kisses. He knows she’s seen it all but there’s something that trembles inside him under her gaze, knows he’s not man enough, that she deserves someone brave and knowing and powerful, all of the things he isn’t – at least, not like this. He’s not kind enough either, or thoughtful enough, though he’s trying. She likes her coffee light and sweet, her flowers big and bright, her films romantic (but not twee. Never twee.)

Nico is in the apartment, Valtteri hears him come in as he’s showering. He’s learnt to listen by now, punished enough for that mistake. This is a game that they play - how long can Valtteri keep him waiting before Nico grows impatient and pulls Valtteri out from whatever task he’s hiding himself in. Valtteri takes his time under the water, gliding the razor over his legs, making sure to be careful around the joints, rinses the mint-scented soap from his body with precision.

He’s padding back into the bedroom, towel around his waist when he realises it’s not Nico. Tiffany surprises him, hands on her hips where she stands in the doorway, gloriously naked, a smattering of bronze freckles across her raised shoulders, her chiselled abs rising and falling with her breath, her hair in loose, sun-kissed waves. Valtteri gasps without meaning to.

“No more teasing me, Hot Stuff.” She winks, flexing and Valtteri’s trying to keep his focus on her eyes but the flash of a bright pink strap-on at her crotch has a gravity he can’t untangle himself from. She tugs the towel away from him and Valtteri doesn’t resist, his cock rising quickly under her gaze. She leans in beside his ear, a hand on his shoulder. “I want what Nico’s having,” she says and pushes him down.

There’s reverence as Valtteri looks up at her, his mouth open with a silent question. Tiffany doesn’t make him ask, just presses the silicone against his lips, lets him take it between his lips in his own time. His eyes are locked on hers as he does so, letting it slide all the way to the back of his throat before she squeezes his shoulder and pulls back, fucks his face with it. It’s messy, Valtteri drooling everywhere and his cock leaking even though he hasn’t touched it and Tiffany, God, Tiffany’s so wet he can smell her, that he wishes desperately that he could open his jaw a little further, slide his tongue beneath the plastic to lick her.

“Good boy,” she’s saying, stroking a hand over his short hair. Then she pauses, seems to reconsider. “Or is it good girl?” She pulls back and Valtteri tries to follow but her hand pushes him away. She looks at him expectantly.

“Girl, I- Please, I’m a good girl.” He keeps his hands dutifully on his knees, not daring to touch without permission and Tiffany strokes over his jaw, beaming like she’s proud of him. She rewards him by bumping the strap-on against his lips again, letting him take it in. Valtteri could cum like this, he thinks idly, almost watching himself from somewhere in the back of his head.

\--

They announce they’re dating on Valentine’s Day. Honestly, it has been difficult for Valtteri not to say anything. Every time he wakes next to her, he’s compelled to take a photograph so he can remember the way the sunlight falls across her cheekbone on that particular morning. Everything feels more real with her moving through space around him, colours brighter, scents stronger, sounds louder. Who is he to deny the world that? He hates how full of himself his Instagram is – it should be nothing but her.

His mother calls the week after. Valtteri had told her about Tiffany, what kind of son would he be otherwise, but he’s certainly guilty of not calling enough. She has him on speakerphone while she does the ironing and he can hear his father pottering about in the background, the dog clattering after him. “I was talking to Inka – you know Inka, from the Church – well she’s friends with Teija, Emilia’s Godmother, and she was saying that Emilia is utterly devasted.”

Emilia. God, he hasn’t thought about Emilia in weeks, not even when he’d found one of her socks when the dryer had stopped working and he’d taken it apart. He’d just thrown it away and got on with it. Valtteri’s throat goes dry. He hasn’t looked at the news, he purposefully avoids it, but he knows that they will think this is moving on suspiciously quickly. Even if it was over long before he said anything. They might – Fuck, they might think he was cheating. He’d never have tarnished Tiffany like that if he’d known her.

“Of course, what right does she have to be that way? It was her who left after all. More fool her if you have found a new love before her. Anyway, Fanni is doing well.” His mother witters on the way mothers do with their adult children. It’s curious, most people think his mother is some kind of automaton, soulless, silent, but that’s what people want out of an undertaker. Valtteri takes after her, however much he resembles his father. His parents are humble, plain, next to most of the grid’s, except perhaps Esteban’s. It makes him all the prouder of them. “You must bring her when you visit. You must, you must.”

Valtteri’s smiling when he hangs up. He’s a Mama’s boy in his heart and Tiffany smiles looking up from her book across the room. She’s sprawled out across the sofa, her legs stretched along the cushions and her hair doing its best to escape from her braid. Valtteri’s smile creeps wider. “I have no idea what you were saying, but you’re in a good mood.”

“My parents want to meet you.” He blushes, scratching at the back of his neck. There are a few scabs, scratches from Tiffany’s nails healing over, itching as they do so. He lifts her feet to sit beneath them, stroking the soft, bare skin. He can’t resist. He lifts the left to his mouth and lets the pad of the smallest toe press against his tongue.

“Don’t be gross,” Tiffany hums, brushing a flyaway out of her face. Her eyes are on her book but they’re twinkling as she moves her foot to poke him in the cheek. “Why don’t you go put your lipstick on? Then I’ll give you something to lick.”

In the bathroom, there are four tubes lined up on the windowsill: the femme fatale red from Vivian, a flirty fuchsia that Tiffany adores on him, a serious mauve and an innocent, bashful baby pink. With the exception of the first, they’re all cheap, supermarket things but that doesn’t matter. It’s the colour that’s important. Nudes confuse him – what’s the obsession with beige? He’s wearing the white skirt today, so he could wear any of them, really, but he plucks for the lightest, letting the pink bloom on his lips like spring blossom. He draws neat, soft semi-circles for his cupid’s bow, coming all the way down before arcing back up.

When he returns, Tiffany is still buried in her book but she’s pantsless, the thatch of hair at her crotch on display for him. Valtteri kneels down on the floor by her side, nudging at her wrist with his nose. Nico needs him to ask with words, but Tiffany understands that this is a question and strokes the back of his head to answer. He nods, climbs onto the sofa and gets to work.

Valtteri’s all enthusiasm – which isn’t to say he’s no technique, just that there are juices running everywhere and he doesn’t mind the sloppiness of it, his lipstick all up Tiffany’s thighs and smeared across his face and he’s going to have to replace this sofa sooner than he thought because there are so many stains already. Next time he’ll pick something black, something leather so he can wipe it clean – lick it clean. He’s grinding his hips down into the cushions and Tiffany’s still reading, though he can see her teeth press down on her lip at the very corner.

Then he nudges her clit upwards with his tongue and seals his lips around it, sucking and he hears the pages fall against the floor. Tiffany grinds back against him, then suddenly he’s flat on his back, her thighs closed tightly about his face and her fingers curling into fists on the arm of the sofa and Valtteri briefly can’t breathe but to die between her thighs would be such a gorgeous way to die that he can’t bring himself to care.

“Fuck, fuck. Oh my God, yes. Don’t you dare stop, Princess.” Her legs are trembling so Valtteri squeezes them to keep her steady, letting her grind down onto his face. The pressure makes his jaw ache but it’s worth it, Jesus Christ is it worth it. Her voice gets higher the closer she gets, the Aussie lift to her sentences more pronounced as she tightens. Valtteri slips his tongue inside her just in time to feel her tighten for the final time and release, bucking wildly, a shout in her throat. “Holy Mother of Fuck, Valtteri. God damn!”

He holds her there as long as she lets him, sucking up her moisture like a man dying of thirst. When she dismounts, he has to wipe a hand across his mouth where everything has pooled. He licks his lips, pokes his tongue out of his mouth at her while she laughs, sitting on the floor and flexing her legs.

“Want a hand?” She asks, nodding at where Valtteri’s skirt has tented. He looks down at himself, then contemplates the smear of pink across the back of his hand. It doesn’t bother him, he considers, whether or not he cums this time. Pleasure doesn’t have to have an objective. He shakes his head, settling into a more comfortable position. Tiffany climbs back onto the sofa and into the space between Valtteri’s arms, reaching for her book again. Valtteri kisses her neck, his eyelashes flickering against her skin.

“I love you,” he mumbles. This is the first time he has said it, but not the first time he’s wanted to.

“I love you too,” she replies, pulling his arms tight against her chest.

\--

He keeps expecting the thing with Nico to stop, but it just doesn’t. It’s not that anyone is telling him it has to, it’s not that he doesn’t find Tiffany fulfilling, it’s not even that Valtteri feels guilty about it. Though he’s loathe to say it, Valtteri likes having Nico around and when Nico is around things happen. Besides, he owes Nico everything. It was him that had given Tiffany the key to Valtteri’s front door. What’s the English expression? _If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it._

There’s an odd kind of guilt to it though. How Valtteri scrambles away from Nico when Tiffany walks in on them like a dog caught stealing. Emilia would never have allowed it in the casual, breezy way that Tiffany does, beaming, telling him it makes her happy to see Valtteri with Nico. He knows what she does with Clémence too, has seen them kiss once, on her doorstep downstairs and all that fills him when he looks at them beside one another is contentment at the smile on Tiffany’s face. (She says it won’t last – “It’ll be over as soon as she finds a fella. Always is.” – and Valtteri’s willing to accept that there will always be things that he doesn’t understand).

Valtteri finally asks. He’s lying in bed with Nico, his head resting against Nico’s stomach, Nico’s fingers rubbing at his temples in slow, delicate circles. “I’m not the first.” Perhaps asks is the wrong word. Valtteri’s always been more comfortable with statements, there are fewer uncertainties.

“No. I’m a whore, haven’t you heard?” Nico laughs but there’s bitterness in it, his fingers curling half-way to a fist. “Go on then, tell me what they’ve said about me.” His voice is a sharpened blade and Valtteri watches his lip curl into a sneer in the wardrobe mirror.

But Valtteri doesn’t want to answer. He’s heard lots of things about lots of people. The paddock talks around him and he says nothing, trusted by everyone and no one, part of the furniture. Everything is a secret when you never speak. Nico grasps at Valtteri’s chin, squeezing painfully. His eyes are stormy. Valtteri swallows. “… Lewis…” He falters.

“Lewis, yes. And Toto. And Adrian and Nelsinho and Jenson and Mark. Shall I go on?” There is more than one kind of fear and Valtteri feels a new one as Nico pushes his head away. His eyes are glistening and his skin is pale, the hair on his arms standing on end. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, fingers carving deep grooves into the mattress. “Pretty Princess Britney gets where he gets because he gets down on his knees and opens his mouth. You must have seen the pictures, right? The ones Michael took? The ones he showed everyone. The ones he showed Viv because he thought she’d leave me? They’re still laughing at me.”

Valtteri hasn’t. Nico’s crying. Valtteri can’t see his face but he can see the heaving of his shoulders, the way his forearms shake. His breath is too fast and shallow. Valtteri gets up and pours Nico a glass of water and places it down on the bedside table. Then he kneels on the floor and puts his face on Nico’s thigh, bares his neck and looks up at him, his mouth in a frown of empathy. He’s not good with words, but he can do this much. He lets Nico cry into his own hands pressed over his face. _Better out than in._

\--

Vivian enjoys dinner parties. You only have to look at her to surmise that much. The children are with Keke for the weekend so, at Vivian’s insistence, Tiffany and Valtteri join her and Nico for the evening. Tiffany chooses the wine they bring with them – four different bottles, two crisp, bright whites and two moody, full-bodied reds. Valtteri doesn’t know much about wine. He barely understands the difference between red and white as it is so when Tiffany starts talking about things like tannins and notes it goes straight over his head, but he listens, enraptured as she holds court with Vivian and Nico with incredible ease. Valtteri’s feels out of his depth alone with the two of them, but Tiffany shines like the pole star and his gaze clings to her.

He’s distracted looking at her, his wineglass raised halfway to his lips and then there’s a shoeless foot rubbing against the inside of his calf. Tiffany’s busy talking to Vivian and sitting beside him, not across. Valtteri turns his head to lock eyes with Nico. Nico is also looking at Vivian, but then Valtteri catches a micro-second of a glance in his direction, the very slight quirk of his eyebrow. Valtteri ignores it and squeezes Tiffany’s hand between their empty plates.

Nico’s foot climbs to Valtteri’s crotch and presses and Valtteri’s startled by the audacity of it. He lets out a squeak that has everyone turn to look at him and he flushes, staring down at the table. Just as everyone is going back to the conversation, Nico does it again, eliciting the same response. _Fool me twice, shame on me._

Vivian puts down her glass, her mouth drawn into a straight line and Valtteri’s heart races, certain he’s in trouble, but instead she turns to Nico and swats him upside the head so casually that Valtteri flinches. “Nico, stop it now, or I’ll put you over my knee.” She doesn’t raise her voice and Valtteri swallows looking at the way Nico’s eyes glaze over beneath his wife’s gaze. He flexes his toes against Valtteri’s crotch, gently, then slowly takes his foot away.

“Yes Ma’am.” Oh. Valtteri had glimpsed this Nico before, once, just momentarily. Nico pouts at Vivian, then across at Valtteri. It’s just short of an apology and it’s infuriating.

“You have him well trained,” Tiffany comments, emptying her glass. Valtteri reaches for the open bottle of white and fills it for her again.

“Not as well as I’d like. Nico’s a brat.” Vivian is smiling again and she’s looking at Valtteri, analytical, calculating. “Now Valtteri, he’s an angel, isn’t he?”

“She’s a very good girl. An absolute darling,” Tiffany replies, easy, breezy, bright, stroking over Valtteri’s forearm. Valtteri’s jeans are too tight, the belt digging into his waist. It’s easy enough to wear them out of the house but he suddenly feels improperly dressed here.

\--

The trousers don’t stay on. They’re on Nico and Vivian’s bed which feels like a heresy but Tiffany and Vivian are watching from the armchairs by the window as Nico and Valtteri’s tongues tangle together. This is the evening entertainment and who are they to deny their partners a show? It’s strange, to have Nico like this, like a normal lover. No games, no roles, at least between the two of them. Their cocks slide together in Valtteri’s fist.

“I think you ought to apologise to Valtteri, Nico. You were very rude to him- Her earlier. That’s no way to treat a guest.” There’s an odd rush that runs down Valtteri’s spine as Vivian corrects herself. It’s not that he wants to be a woman, well, not out there in the world. But here, where it’s no one’s business except the four of them, then maybe yes he does. He’s thought about looking into it but the vast expanse of things a quick Google search opens up is overwhelming, takes all the joy and delight out of it.

Nico nods and reaches for the lube. He opens himself up quick and cursory like he has done with Valtteri so many times, eager to get to the main event. He’s flexible enough that when he lies on his stomach, he can have Valtteri in his mouth and his fingers inside himself. He’s not sucking Valtteri like Valtteri knows he can, just keeping Valtteri’s cock warm while he makes the necessary preparations. Valtteri’s heart pounds. He’s never – Fuck, he’s never been inside Nico. He throws his head back and moans as Nico’s lube sticky fingers squeeze at his thighs before he releases Valtteri and moves to straddle him.

“Go on then, get on with it.” Vivian traces her fingers around the rim of her glass. Valtteri looks at Tiffany. While Vivian watches with affected dispassion, Tiffany’s lust is unbridled as Nico sinks down on Valtteri’s cock and presses their lips together. Nico’s tighter than anything Valtteri has ever felt, the squeeze on his cock delicious and almost too much. Valtteri hisses and there’s a moment of still, Nico holding Valtteri’s head between his hands and looking, truly, deeply looking at him.

Vivian clears her throat. Valtteri looks at Tiffany again and she nods and Valtteri starts to thrust, gripping Nico’s hips to keep him flush with his groin. Nico looks so magnificent and Valtteri doesn’t understand how the whole world doesn’t tremble before his beauty, let alone laughs. He presses his lips against Nico’s throat and there’s worship here too, a new religion coming into being between their bodies and Tiffany’s eyes and the drawn-out note Vivian’s finger plays around the edge of her glass as she leads them.

And this is love, again. Not something torn from Tiffany but something growing, multiplying, infinite and expanding. How do people live like misers?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise to Schumi fans. He's an absolute dick in this fic.


	5. to be yourself, to know and love

And then he’s back in the car. This is familiar, comfortable. The car asks questions he can answer, Ricci asks questions that he can answer, mostly. If anyone notices a change in him, they keep it to themselves, even when he can feel himself glowing around Tiffany like he’s a kid in the Williams garage for the first time, just so fucking ecstatic to be there, to bask in accomplishment before the next goal squares up properly. When she’s not there he feels like he’s climbing the stairs up to the guillotine. Even if they don’t notice, he does, standing inside himself like a house of broken locks.

Lewis says something eventually, clapping a hand on Valtteri’s shoulder after free practice. “You okay man?” Valtteri’s never thought of himself as a jealous person but something comes over him when he looks at Lewis, beautiful, perfect Lewis, the best of a generation, and he winces. “Hey. This year is gonna be your year. You got this.” It’s not. Valtteri has already accepted it. The rage froths all the more inside him in the face of Lewis’ insurmountable niceness. He shrugs Lewis off and sits in the back of the garage, cupping his chin. His stubble is growing out again and it feels ridiculous to pretend at this, but he has to. What else is he going to do?

Nico’s there too because you don’t ever get to leave, not really. You ride that rail all the way to the end and even then, the paddock’s still a travelling circus full of ghosts. Valtteri can feel Niki Lauda frowning at him in the spirit realm, _where’s your fight boy?_ He’s not even losing in a blaze of glory, just another solid second, a Berger or a Coulthard or a Barrichello or a Webber, propping up that glorious teammate. They must have said it to all of them, _sorry kid, any other generation_ – it’s never true, there’s always someone golden, shining, blinding to piss all over your dreams.

There are different methods of coping. Hit things, let it out, let them see you crying and vulnerable, screaming and swearing and kicking up the dust. Valtteri keeps it all inside himself, lets them impress upon his silence, his inaction, whatever they want to see. They say it’s a Finnish thing like they’ve forgotten Mika weeping in the bushes, so quick to compare him to Kimi like they have anything in common but a flag.

Valtteri walks with Nico because he isn’t afraid to be seen with him, because he knows Nico’s just as scared that he’s cocking it all up, and Valtteri wants to hold his hand tight in his own but that would be breaking all the rules. He can see them staring, Seb’s eyes trailing after them as he stands to talk with Kimi. “It’s okay. You don’t have to stay with me,” Nico says quietly, his face flush with embarrassment. There’s a masochism to punditry when you used to compete, but victory and humiliation are the only things people like them know.

“I want to,” Valtteri answers without hesitation. “Let them stare.” He slings an arm over Nico’s shoulders, just platonic enough for the press. It’s funny, when they’d raced together, he’d thought of Nico as unshakeable but now here he is, trembling at Valtteri’s side, but then he’d never dared to look at Nico for long, frightened of that snake coiling in his own stomach. (Nico still fills him with fear but there’s a difference between these fears and those fears).

Nico has his own hotel room, but he slips into Valtteri’s that night, curls himself up against Valtteri’s back, shivers like he’s been left out in the cold until Tiffany tells him to stop being an idiot and get in the middle. Valtteri watches his lovers holding each other with a curious eye, how Tiffany lets Nico press his face into the crook of her neck and sob. Nico’s still in his shirt and trousers between their naked bodies and Valtteri’s searching for the section on this in his mental rulebook but it’s not there. He presses his lips against Nico’s angelic shoulder blades, his beard scraping like sandpaper against that flawless skin. It’s not about the sex, not really, not any more than its about watching films or bike rides or just sitting in one another’s company.

“Ich liebe dich,” Valtteri says, at the very limits of his German and Tiffany smiles over Nico’s shoulder at him, soft, genuine, her fingers stroking through Nico’s hair. He doesn’t extend it expecting, or even desiring, anything in return. That’s not the point of love, it’s not something to be learnt by rote or to come upon you like a vision. It’s a verb.

He almost doesn’t hear it, weak and muffled as it is, Nico turned away from him, but there it is. “Mä rakastan sua.” It’s probably the limit of Nico’s Finnish too, but it makes Valtteri’s heart swell. He laces his fingers with Nico, squeezes like he had wanted to in the paddock. Tiffany reaches around Nico to wrap her hands around Valtteri’s waist. She doesn’t love Nico, and that’s alright, Nico doesn’t love her either, but they both love Valtteri and Valtteri loves both of them and it’s only a degree removed, enough to feel it, featherlight like Valtteri does with Vivian.

It doesn’t matter that Valtteri left all his skirts and lipsticks and pretty things at home. This version of him is just as real and solid and present in the privacy of a hotel room, where nothing matters but love.

\--

“So, you and Rosberg, hmm?”

Valtteri looks up over his coffee. This isn’t the first time he’s been asked. Lewis had asked and walked away before Valtteri had decided whether or not to respond, like he regretted asking. Seb had asked, gossip hound that he is, and Valtteri hadn’t dignified it with a response, not wanting to see him snickering while he reports back to Kimi. Daniel had asked and hadn’t expected an answer, just wanted an excuse to grin and poke at Valtteri’s ribs like a bored child.

This time its Charles asking. It surprises Valtteri. The two of them have barely ever spoken but here they are on the pit wall, under an awning, watching the rain come down hard enough they might have to do qualifying in the morning. Charles looks so small in that Ferrari waterproof, shrinking into its brightness. He looks cold too, blowing into his bare hands. Valtteri nods, without meaning to, inexplicably gives something up to this boy. He sips his coffee, letting the bitterness ground him. If he were a younger driver, a rookie just come up, then he supposes Charles would enthral him the way he does everyone else. But he’s too old, too world weary for that now.

When Charles turns to look out onto the track, the light catches his cheekbone and suddenly Valtteri sees Nico in him, sees the angel tumbling down from the sky, and he’s heard the rumours about Charles too, but Charles has just as many friends as he does wolves at his door. Nico did too, once upon a time. Valtteri wants to grab hold of Charles’ hands, keep them warm in his own, tell him to pin his hopes and his desires on himself and no one else – to tell him that Seb will break him if he lets him, that Pierre will break him even worse in turn. But what is there to say for distance? For apathy? That is its own kind of suffering, made for cowards. Maybe what he really wants to say is get out now, stop hurting yourself. Yeah, like any of them are capable of that.

“I’m pleased for you. You seem happy.” Charles smiles and it’s genuine, but it’s not happy. He fists his hands deep into his pockets, his eyes glassy. Too late, Charles isn’t a rookie anymore and the wounds are already there, leaking and festering.

“Thank you,” Valtteri mumbles, setting down his empty cup. He ought to say something, anything, but Charles is already walking away as Seb is sidling up to him again and he should have known that the wolves are never far behind their prey.

Seb is grinning. “He’ll let you fuck him if you ask.” Valtteri watches Seb twist his wedding ring on his finger, the rain running over his knuckles. “Come on. Post-divorce Valtteri loves a good slut, doesn’t he?”

Valtteri’s never been closer to punching someone. He pulls his cap down so he doesn’t have to look in Seb’s eyes. “Grow up,” he says, loud and firm, taking off in the direction of the Mercedes garage.

\--

By the summer break, Valtteri has let go of all hope. It’s only fair, really, that he gets to go to bed with Nico and Lewis gets to pick out a spot for his seventh world championship trophy. His mother is surprised to hear just how poorly its going. “But you sound so happy when you call? I thought maybe you had the upper hand this time.” She sighs. “Well, lucky in love at least.”

Tiffany hangs pictures around the apartment. Valtteri had taken down all the photos of him and Emilia and left the hooks up bare. The next thing he knows, there are photos of him on the podium, of his car crossing the finish line just ahead of Lewis. Valtteri flushes red across his cheeks when he sees what she’s doing. It feels like self-indulgence, but she insists. “I’m proud of you, of everything you’ve achieved.” The one that Nico took of Valtteri goes up in the bedroom, easily covered by pulling back the curtain.

She kisses him softly while he dresses himself in his suit. He hates suits, they’ve never felt comfortable, never looked right on him. He looks like he’s off to a job interview, not that he’s ever really had one of those. It’s a plain look, black and white, something that he’ll easily disappear into the crowd in. Tiffany looks stunning, naturally, in fuchsia leopard print, light and airy and rippling over her body like the wind itself.

“I hate these things,” Valtteri mumbles, squeezing her hand as they walk the couple of streets over to the venue. It’s a charity gala, like anyone in Monaco knows the faintest thing about it, but everybody’s going, and absences will be noted. He waves, briefly, at Nico and Vivian on the steps, looking glamorous, perfect, like they’re meant to be there. Nico’s in a soft, silvery velvet jacket and Vivian in a white gown that makes her look like she was carved from marble.

He doesn’t even get anonymity here. The room’s filled with people he knows or knows of and there’s Lewis holding court and Max and Kelly feeding each other martini olives and Charles and Pierre and the list goes on and on and on and Valtteri can’t help but feel like he’s drowning. Clémence sidles up and links her arm through Tiffany’s, pulling her out of Valtteri’s grip. “Come on, you promised you’d be my wing woman tonight.”

Tiffany rolls her eyes at Valtteri and for a moment there’s a clouded sadness he’s never seen before but it’s gone again too quickly for him to parse. “I did, I did. Are you going to be alright by yourself, Darling?”

Valtteri nods, even though the answer is no. He gives Tiffany’s hand one last squeeze and nods his head in the direction of Dani, frowning into a beer at the bar as he tries desperately not to look at Kelly and keeps on failing. Clémence is the kind of woman he adores, aggressively feminine and high maintenance, someone who likes to show off and be shown off, who wants the things that she’s supposed to want, who keeps her hair long, her heels high and her eyeliner perfect. Tiffany whispers a thank you and disappears into the crowd with the woman who will leave her tonight.

He turns to look at the door, wishing he could leave, and winces. Emilia is here and he doesn’t know why he’s surprised, he didn’t get Monaco in the divorce and she didn’t get Finland and their lives were intertwined for so long that they’ll never fully unpick them but it feels like a knife in his guts as she glides in dressed in turquoise with some tall, dark haired man on her arm that Valtteri doesn’t recognise. She hasn’t seen him yet and she must know he’s here. Then she turns slightly and locks eyes on him, standing alone by the fire exit, and there’s ice in his lungs. He turns away and walks out onto the balcony, fighting the urge to break into a sprint. For several long minutes, he looks out onto the horizon. The sun is setting over the water, over the island, and he takes deep breaths of ocean air. Then someone claps a hand on his shoulder and presses a beer into his hand.

“It’s hard,” Mika says softly, tipping his own bottle against his lips, “Being reminded of your failures.” He reaches to play with a wedding ring that isn’t there, that hasn’t been there for years, that the sun has burnt away all memory of and Valtteri instinctively reaches for his own and it’s not there either, his ring finger one continuous shade from pad to palm.

“Thanks,” Valtteri mumbles, taking a long drink. People always think that he’s like Kimi when in reality he’s more like Mika. But all those old gods of games and chance and fortune favour Mika in a way they’ll never favour him. He frowns at his beer. He’s losing his taste for it, prefers sweeter flavours these days.

“He’s very beautiful.” Mika is looking at Nico across the room, turned away from them to look at Lewis, deep in conversation with some model or other like she’s the most interesting person in the world. Monaco is like that, an island of people looking at other people and not who is looking at them. Valtteri studies Mika’s face. There’s a wistfulness in his expression. “You know when you get to my age you start regretting the mistakes you didn’t make more than the mistakes you did. You boys don’t know how young you are. You’ve got all the time in the world.”

Valtteri’s gaze is drawn to Emilia again. She’s alone now, her partner at the bar. He should apologise, he considers, now that he understands what went wrong, how he let it all slide away from him like it meant nothing, because he did love her, once upon a time. Then her partner returns and hands her a glass of wine, red, a shiraz probably, that was always her favourite, and she lights up like she did for him all those year ago. He turns back to look at Tiffany, waving from where she’s standing next to Clémence and Dani, waiting for the right moment to excuse herself to the bathroom and not return. No, sometimes the kindest thing you can do is let something go. He grins and gives Tiffany a thumbs up.

(Later, he’s in the bathroom and he can hear giggling from the last stall. “Charles- Charles, oh my God-” Pierre says much louder than he thinks he does and there’s the thud of somebody’s body against the wall. Valtteri runs the tap but they don’t seem to care. He could stop them before somebody who really shouldn’t find out does but then isn’t it about time they were allowed to make these kinds of mistakes with men the way they are with women? He doesn’t want to be a spoilsport and for once responsibility doesn’t get the better of him. He walks out without a word.)

\--

“Come on Baby, we’re waiting!” Nico calls from the other side of the bathroom door. Valtteri squints at him-

She catches herself in the middle of the thought. It’s silly, really. She tidies up her cupid’s bow, dabbing at the small smudge with her ring finger. The dress is green silk, makes her feel like a Bond girl where it falls away from her chest, the slit showing off a flash of her smooth pale legs. The perfume is another of Vivian’s gifts and it smells like witchcraft. Her hair is still buzzed short, but then she likes the look, how it channels her favourite era of Natalie Portman. The earrings are clip on, sleek silver things that dangle and brush against her neck to match the chain at her throat.

She steps into her shoes. This is the hard part, she’s still not quite practiced enough to go very far without stumbling but she’ll get there. She gives herself one last look, enjoying it while it’s still just for her, then opens the door. No more shyness.

Vivian gasps, her hands pressed to her mouth. Valtteri enjoys it. She’s never seen Vivian’s composure rattled this way and shock looks good on her. Tiffany wolf whistles from where she’s reclined on the bed, her back against the headboard. Nico turns away from the window and grins, his mouth widening slowly.

“You know, one day I’ll have to take you out this. The whole world will be jealous,” Nico says and for once its not fear that Valtteri feels coiling in her stomach but contentment, the radiance of love all around her. She totters towards Nico and stumbles, but he catches her, his hand steady on her waist as he lifts her onto the bed. Tiffany leans down over her and presses a kiss against the tip of her nose. Nico’s hands slide down her thighs over the silk and then he’s pushing her legs apart, throwing the fabric over his head.

“Nico, what have I told you about patience?” Vivian chastises, but her heart’s not in it. There’s a muffled objection from under Valtteri’s dress and Valtteri gasps into Tiffany’s mouth when she feels Nico’s wet tongue against her soft, new panties. Then Vivian’s pulling Tiffany away, angling her chin up to press their lips together and Valtteri thinks if she died right now, everything would be okay.

Better than okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Damien Rice song It Takes a Lot to Know a Man: https://open.spotify.com/album/1dMqVfKYgHAjG76ZZufxSW


End file.
